


The Favorite

by Elensule



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Concubine, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-24 23:41:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4938430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elensule/pseuds/Elensule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are few rewards for the favored slave of a cruel king save for the ones he finds in the arms of his lover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Favorite

**Author's Note:**

> This little fic wouldn't stop simmering in the back of my head, so here it is. I consider it complete. Thanks to Lisa for the summary and encouragement!
> 
> Dare

The doors opened with an ominous groan, heavy wood pushed inward by the ever present guards. There was a collective gasp of breath as each concubine looked toward the door. The King’s mood had been so mercurial of late, since the Queen had fallen pregnant. It was hard to say what the state would be of any called upon to serve him.

“I can manage myself.” The voice was weak, but carried through the cavernous room. Slaves they might be, but it could not be said that the King did not offer at least a modicum of comfort to his harem. The speaker shoved away the hand of the guard who was attempting to assist him into the room. He held his head high, despite the limp and occasional grimace as he crossed the threshold. His clothing was impeccable, emerald green silk hanging off of one shoulder to accent the freckled, golden skin beneath, but it stuck to his back ominously, with dark stains spreading in even lines from shoulders to waist.

“Leave us,” he said, his voice carrying easily. The other concubines turned their eyes aside; after all, when he wanted assistance, he would ask for it. The guards were not as respectful, and hesitated to depart. “Leave us!” He said again, green eyes sparking with displeasure. This time, the guards obeyed; the King's favorite had certain dignities owed him for that dubious honor. He stood stiffly in the center of the room until the doors closed, leaving him lit in the flickering glow of the central fire.

With the final ‘whoosh’ of air, he dropped to his knees, a low groan of pain escaping his lips. Two men broke away from the group, standing from their pillows to run to his side. “Easy, my love,” the smaller man said, kneeling at his side and brushing the hair back from his face. “We are here.” He looked up into the eyes of his partner. “Sam, please turn down his pallet, and bring the hot water.”

The younger man nodded again, standing and crossing back to where he had been before. The other concubines parted for him like water, then returned studiously to what they had been doing before, thanking The Light that, once again, they had not been chosen to serve their King. 

“Cas…” The fallen concubine rasped, lifting his hand to thread his fingers through his rescuer’s dark hair. “Are you well?”

“As I ever am, with you back in my arms.” Cas smiled, pressing a kiss to the other man’s forehead. “Come, Dean… Sam has made up your pallet and readied your medicine. Let us tend to you.” He went to one knee, and then hoisted his love to a stand as gently as possible. It still drew a fresh moan of pain from Dean’s lips, but together they crossed the room toward a more secluded corner.

Around them, the gentle murmur of conversation returned as the other concubines relaxed once more. Cas helped Dean to a low pallet covered with soft blankets and rounded pillows. “Here, shirt off first,” he said, knowing that as soon as they lay down, Dean would hurt worse to move. Sam brought a bowl of warm water, and the two of them moved in tandem to loosen the dried blood from Dean’s back with a cloth, until the shirt fell away and they were able to pull it over Dean’s head. 

Cas knelt beside him as he lay out on his stomach, stroking the unbroken skin soothingly. Dean’s smooth skin was marred with shiny white scars, crisscrossing up and down from waist to shoulders. Today, those scars were split in several places, oozing blood, and Cas spit out a curse. 

“Hush, Angel,” Dean murmured, reaching to squeeze Cas’ knee. “It is not so bad as all that. Those sweet lips should never sully themselves with something so sour.” He smiled wanly. “I feel better already.”

Sam knelt at his side, a small cup in his hands. “Drink this, Dean,” he ordered. “It has poppy in it, and you will need that. A few of those will require stitches.”

“You are always so bossy, Sam,” Dean teased, propping himself onto one elbow with a hiss. “One might think you are the older brother, and not I.” But he took the cup nevertheless, sipping the tea as quickly as he could, returning to his former position as soon as it was emptied. 

“Well,” Sam said, taking the cup back and going to gather his other supplies. “Someone must see to it that your hide stays in one piece.” He lay a cloth down beside the pallet, shaking his head. “You need not volunteer _every_ time the King calls, Dean.”

“He wanted Kevin,” Dean said flatly. “The mood he has been in lately, that boy would not survive.” The fire’s flickering glow illuminated the flush of Dean’s cheeks as the poppy took hold. He wrapped his arms around a silken pillow, turning his head aside. “Do what you need to, Sam… My hide has seen worse.”

Sam wisely refrained from commenting, and simply reached for his silver needle and silken thread, as he had so many times before. 

Cas knelt beside Dean, stroking his lover’s hair. “That was a brave thing you did,” he murmured softly, glancing across the room to where Kevin sat with his friends, embroidering something or another. The young man looked up and met Cas’ gaze, then looked away, shame coloring his features red. “You are selfless and good… If a bit too much so.” He smiled and kissed Dean’s lips softly.

Dean’s face was growing lax, the poppies easing the pain and giving the room a faint glow. “It was no real heroic act,” Dean said, shamelessly rubbing his face against Cas’ hand, like a cat. “Simply what needed to be done.” He fell silent, then, and hissed when Sam first washed a wound before beginning to suture it closed. 

The light of the fire faded as Sam continued his work, and the stinging pain of the sutures melded into a steady burn. Dean let himself float on the feeling, and on Cas’ low, rumbling voice. His lover sang a lullaby of his people, in a language Dean had yet to learn. Still, the song brought comfort each time he heard it, as familiar and soothing as the fingers running through his hair.

“Done,” Sam pronounced, some unknown time later. He fixed a second cup of tea, and urged Dean to one elbow again. “Drink this, and sleep,” he said. “I will bandage the rest in the morning. For tonight, Cas, cover him with a sheet and allow the air to help him to heal.” He put the cup aside when Dean had drained it, and bent to kiss his brother’s temple. “Sleep well, Dean… Cas, I leave him to you.”

Castiel smiled. “Thank you, Sam,” he said earnestly. “Sleep well, yourself.” The other lanterns were beginning to go out, slowly bathing the room in darkness. Cas quickly changed into his own sleeping clothes, and darkened their lantern. He hated to lose the sight of Dean, so soon after he had been called away, but knew that his lover needed his sleep most of all.

He slid into the pallet and drew Dean into his arms, mindful of his bruising and his new stitches. Lax from the poppy, Dean moved easy and pliant as Cas positioned them comfortably. “Love you, Angel,” Dean murmured against Cas’ collarbone. “Missed you.”

“I know, my love… And I, you.” He cursed the King, as he so often did, for the hurt done to his love. He might have, himself, been born to this life, destined for this fate from the time he drew the attention of the King’s advisors. Dean and Sam, and so many of the others, had drawn no such fate. Only the King’s insatiable attitude, for both war and the pleasures of the flesh, had cursed them to such a life.

Dean’s breathing against his chest evened to a low, steady pattern, and Castiel stroked Dean’s cheek softly. “Forgive me, my love,” he whispered into his hair. “For I cannot wish any different life for you, which did not bring you to my arms.” A slow tear rolled down his cheek, and he turned his face aside as he grieved for the man his Dean had once been, and would never be again.


End file.
